


Alohomora

by EmiliaTargaryen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmiliaTargaryen/pseuds/EmiliaTargaryen
Summary: What if the boy who lived...hadn’t?
Kudos: 2





	1. Brush With Magic

Newton Finch was, in his opinion, the most boring boy in all of London. He didn’t play or go to school or do any of the things a boy his age was expected to do. Instead, Newt spent nearly every moment sitting in a corner of his father’s office, taking careful notes, sorting files, and learning how to become a proper lawyer. 

Gregory Finch, Newt’s father, was one of the top lawyers in the country. He and his associate Royce Gregory had founded a small firm they’d cleverly named _Gregory & Sons_, which was located in a tall office building in the very heart of London. Although they had recently decided they could afford a secretary at the front desk, Mr. Finch still loved giving Newt all manner of office tasks, most of them complicated and confusing.

Newt, having a quiet disposition, made few protests and struggled through the work, knowing perfectly well that his father’s boisterous personality would drown out whatever complaints he, Newt, bothered to voice.

The work wasn’t always boring – a legal office, as it turned out, was a fantastic place to see all sorts of unusual characters. While Mr. Finch preferred dealing with well-to-do clients, they had plenty of walk-ins with the wildest stories. Newt’s favorite had been a woman that came in, hysterical, demanding representation in a case against an old woman who’d sold her a parrot that only said swear words. She’d come in with the birdcage swinging from one hand, the enormous parrot flapping wildly and cursing loudly. 

Today, however, seemed to be a less-than-interesting day. Newt sat in his place in the corner, reading an especially dull report about an upcoming case – a businessman suing a store in which he’d slipped on a puddle. He often jumped as Mr. Finch shouted things into his phone. He’d been on the phone quite a lot this morning, doing damage control on a case that had been unfortunately leaked to the public. He often shouted things like, “That’s out of context!” or “Go on! See if you ever have our business again!” 

Mr. Finch was everything you’d expect of a legal representative. He was tall and burly, his black hair slicked and parted, his pencil-thin mustache a perfect line, and always wearing a tailored suit of either gray or navy. His eyes were small and dark, and very few things escaped their gaze.

Newt looked as different from his father as possible – he was small for his age, had yellow hair that was nearly always a mess, and large, dreamy eyes of the color of chocolate. While his father’s features were round and boyish, Newt’s face was thin and angular. 

“No, no, it was your company that put that file together! It’s not our fault your system’s faulty!” Mr. Finch shouted into the telephone, his face beginning to turn red. 

Newt looked over the top of his heavy file, wondering vaguely if he ought to move his work to the reception area – sometimes, after a particular heated call, Mr. Finch looked for someone small and vulnerable to take his frustration out on. Newt fit neatly into both those categories.

As he was trying to make up his mind, Newt’s eyes wandered out the large window that took up most of one wall, to the crowded street below. He saw a familiar man running up the street, looking very angry indeed – it was Royce. Newt watched as Royce turned and vanished into the first floor of the building.

“Dad,” said Newt tentatively, looking back at Mr. Finch.

“No, no, _you_ listen!” Mr. Finch bellowed into the phone, slamming a hand down on his desk. 

Cautiously, Newt set aside his work and approached his father’s desk. Still timid, he tried again, “Dad? Mr. Royce-”

“Not now,” snapped Mr. Finch, shooting Newt an irritated look. Into the phone, he added, “Not you.”

Giving up, Newt returned to his corner and hid his face behind his file, peering at the door often. He heard when Royce entered the office – his voice was raised as he spoke to the secretary, then he came bursting through the door into Mr. Finch’s office.

Royce looked worse than Newt had ever seen him – his neatly kempt hair was falling in greasy chunks around his face, his best suit jacket was ripped, and he was covered in head-to-toe with garbage. His eyes were wild as he slapped a hand onto the phone’s desk unit.

“What the ruddy hell are you doing?” Mr. Finch shouted angrily. “Do you have any idea-” He froze, just taking in Royce’s appearance. “Good lord, man, what happened?”

“You’ll never believe it!” Royce exclaimed. “I was about to come into the office and I stepped in this great mess in my garden – I don’t have a dog, you know, but that bloke across the street has – so I went directly to his door to let him have it. Before I could get there, though, his bins started attacking me!”

“His – bins?” repeated Mr. Finch. 

Newt put down his file – he wasn’t about to miss the rest of _this_ story.

“His bins,” said Royce, nodding vigorously. “Started bouncing around the garden, spitting rubbish everywhere, making this horrible racket.”

“Nonsense. You must have tripped over them. Bins don’t start throwing garbage on their own.”

“These did!” Royce insisted. “And then, if you believe it, the old bloke came out and started hollering at me for disturbing his property! And that jack Russell of his came running at me, snarling like anything-”

“Did you call the police?”

“Did I – no.” Royce paused, looking like he’d just realized calling the police was the obvious thing to do. Peevishly, he said, “I was being attacked! All I thought was to get the hell out of there.”

“What are you waiting for?” asked Mr. Finch, pushing the phone toward Royce. “Call them.”

Royce took up the receiver and began to dial, muttering to himself, “I’ll have him for this, mark my words. He’s gone too far this-”

“Did the dog chase you?” Newt asked curiously.

“All the way to the end of the street.”

“Get a pad ready,” Mr. Finch said, glancing at Newt as if he’d just remembered he was there. “You can take notes for Mr. Royce.” 

Newt obediently dug in his bag for paper and pen. While he was stooped, there was a sudden pop and, when he looked up again, a woman was standing in the middle of the room, looking around hurriedly. She had wildly curly hair and was dressed long, purple robes. Mr. Finch and Royce both stared at the strange newcomer, dumbfounded.

“Who the ruddy-”

Before Royce could finish his sentence, the woman had pulled a thin strip of wood from her robes, pointed it at him, and cried, “ _Immobulus!_ ”

Royce froze, one hand still raised, as though a layer of invisible ice had encased him. Mr. Finch was halfway out of his chair, mouth open, similarly frozen. The woman turned – Newt shrank against the wall, clutching his pad to his chest.

“Sorry if I’ve frightened you,” said the woman kindly. She had a round face and warm eyes. “I’m Bella Nuttley with the _Improper Use of Magic Office_.”

“N-Newt Finch,” stuttered Newt. “Of, er, _this_ office.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” Nuttley turned to study Royce. “Nasty business, this. Crups ought to be outlaws in cities. They do hate Muggles so.”

Giving the stick a twirl, Nuttley began to wave it this way and that – the garbage all over Royce vanished, the tear in his suit mended itself, and a slightly glassy look came over both men’s faces. Newt watched, mouth hanging open, as Nuttley then conjured a chair from thin air, identical to the one Newt usually sat in. The chair swept under Royce, scooping him up, then set itself on the floor neatly in front of Mr. Finch’s desk.

Another twirl, and Mr. Finch dropped into his seat. Still frozen, he and Royce now looked in the midst of a casual business meeting. Nuttley nodded her approval, wiping her hands together as though she’d just finished some heavy lifting.

Newt, unable to contain himself any longer, blurted out, “What did you do?”

Nuttley didn’t look at him – she was straightening some pens on Mr. Finch’s desk. “Just cleaned them up a bit and modified their memories. Had to do a check, of course – knew this one was married to a witch, but I reckon she doesn’t want him to know.”

She gestured toward the desk, but Newt couldn’t tell who she was indicating. Then, her grin slipping for just a moment, Nuttley asked, “You’re Eleanor Morgan’s son, right?” 

“Er…”

“Sorry, Finch. Eleanor Finch, it is now.”

“I – yeah, she’s my mom.”

“Brilliant. Less work for me. You just let her know what’s happened and she’ll know proper procedure. Not in front of them, of course,” Nuttley added, shooting a furtive glance back at Royce and Mr. Finch. “I’d just have to come do them again, wouldn’t I? Understand?”

“Uh…” 

In truth, Newt didn’t understand anything. His brain seemed to have stopped working – he couldn’t stop staring at his still-frozen father. But if his confusion showed on his face, Nuttley didn’t notice. She stowed the strip of wood back inside her robes, took a moment to brush an overlooked piece of rubbish from Royce’s jacket, then shot Newt a grin. “Tell your mum I said hello. Oh, and good luck to you! You’ll be starting school this year, won’t you?”

“Starting?” Newt repeated. He’d been in primary school, of course, since he was old enough to attend. Was she talking about secondary school and, if she was, how did she know what grade level he was? “How exactly-”

But Nuttley, checking her watch, suddenly exclaimed, “Good lord, is that the time? Sorry, but I’ve got to be off! Got a meeting with the witch from the Maintenance Office about my window – it’s been stuck on a thunderstorm for about a month now. Makes the whole place dreary. Here, dear.”

From a pocket in her robes, Nuttley pulled out a business card and held it out to Newt, who hesitated a moment before extending a shaky hand to take it. 

“Give it a shout if you never need anything! Good luck at Hogwarts!” With a cheerful wave, Nuttley turned on the spot and vanished. The instant she was gone, Mr. Finch and Royce seemed to return to normal. 

Shaking his head, Mr. Finch looked dazedly at Royce and said, “Royce. When did you get here?”

Royce, looking just as out of it, answered, “I’m… I’m not sure. Did you call me in?”

“No, I don’t – I don’t think so.”

“Funny, I can’t even… I don’t remember the drive here at all.”

“Yes, I’m a little off, as well. I thought I was in the middle of a call, but…”

Mr. Finch looked down at the phone, as if he expected it to spout some answers at him. Confused as he was, Newt felt he probably wouldn’t have been surprised if the phone _had_ responded to his question. 

“Maybe…maybe I’ve been working a little too hard,” Mr. Finch said after a long pause. Clearing his throat, he adopted his official voice, saying firmly, “Tell Janet I’m leaving early today. Personal leave. Can you take the helm for a day or two?”

“Of course, Greg,” said Royce. “Been sick of being cooped up at home anyway.”

“Very good. Newton, I- what’s that you’ve got there?”

“Huh?” repeated Newt stupidly. He glanced at the business card still clutched in his hand and quickly shoved it into his pocket. “Oh, nothing.”

“Let’s be off. Bring a few files – you can read up at home.”

Mr. Finch strode to the shelf of open case files, selected several, and deposited them into Newt’s arm. Newt’s knees nearly buckled under the weight. Wobbling, Newt followed his father out of the office. They made their way outside, to Mr. Finch’s sleek, fancy company car – Newt tumbled into the backseat, shifted so he was sitting directly behind the driver’s seat, and buckled in before pulling his notepad from his bag, flipping to a fresh page, and beginning to sketch as fast as he could.

“That’s my boy,” said Mr. Finch, hearing the scratch of the pen on the paper. “Always at work.”

But Newt wasn’t working – he was trying to capture every detail he could remember about Nuttley. As he replayed the encounter in his head, he jotted things along the edges of the paper – _Improper Use of Magic Office; Crups; Hogwarts; Married to a witch – dad or Royce?_

It took all of Newt’s self-control not to say something to his father, but he could imagine the reaction he might get. Mr. Finch clearly remembered nothing about Nuttley or even about Royce’s unusual morning. He was the type of man who believed in logic and order and held little patience for fantasy or imagination. Anything that could be considered “a waste of time.” Certainly this story, a story about garbage bins attacking Royce and then a woman magically making them both forget that it happened, would be dismissed as Newt’s imagination running wild and followed by a lengthy lecture.

Confused and frustrated, Newt could see only one thing to do. He would have to ask his mother.


	2. Eleanor’s Secret

Eleanor Finch was as unlike her husband as was possible to be. She had the same yellow-blonde hair as he son, which she often wore in a half-up bun that she secured with a well-placed paint brush. Her angular face was often smudged with paint. At any hour of the day, she could be found in the apartment’s second sitting room, which had been converted into an art studio, dressed in overalls and singing (loudly and off-key) as she dabbed paint onto various-sized canvases.

A warm but somewhat ditzy personality accompanied Eleanor’s carefree appearance. She didn’t care for cooking or cleaning, so it was lucky she had married well and could afford to hire people for such tasks. In fact, the only things Eleanor cared for were painting, singing, and spending time with her family. This often clashed with Mr. Finch’s opinion that a proper wife ought to see to the house and the cooking and children, and he often attempted to row with Eleanor on the matter. However, in what was always a magnificent display of unflustered serenity, Eleanor never responded to his temper and always left Mr. Finch with the feeling that _he’d_ been the one in the wrong and quite confused as to what he’d been trying to argue about in the first place.

This, combined with Eleanor’s obvious beauty, was the only reason Newt could see for his parent’s marriage. It was also, he could only assume, the reason that he was so unlike either of them. With parents being such extreme opposites in every manner, Newt fell neatly in the middle of each trait and found himself worse off for it. He wasn’t diligently hardworking nor could he blissfully ignore things without feeling lazy; he wasn’t charismatic like his father, but wasn’t able to accept his lack of people skills with the untroubled grace of his mother; and, to top it all off, Newt leaned toward his father’s standard of appearing proper, but also displayed his mother’s talent for never knowing exactly what the proper thing was.

On the whole, Newt was awkward – an odd blend of shy but curious, prone to saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and never quite sure what to do with himself at any given time.

So it was that, the evening off the usual incident at Mr. Finch’s office, Newt found himself trying to think of a way to tell her about his bizarre encounter with Ms. Nuttley.

The family was seated at the large table in the dining room, which had large windows overlooking the shiny neighborhood in which they lived. Mr. Finch, at the head of the table, was drawing up a schedule for his time off, jotting down things like _10:30, Read Newspaper for Half Hour_ or _2:15, Quiet Contemplation._ Eleanor was staring out at the sky, which was vividly multicolored in the coming sunset, and using a fork to pick chunks of potato out of her bowl. Newt sat quiet, idly stirring the last bit of his lovage soup, still turning over the day’s events in his mind.

_“Knew this one was married to a witch, but I reckon she doesn’t want him to know.”_

But how could Newt’s mother, odd but still rather boring, be a witch? She’d never done anything remotely unnatural, although her paintings were often so realistic you could almost get lost in them, and Newt was sure she’d never keep something so important from his father. Although, he thought placidly, he certainly wouldn’t blame her if she had. He knew too well how poorly Mr. Finch tolerate the odd or unusual – he wouldn’t have let Eleanor get away with it herself if he were capable of winning (or even initiating) an argument.

Newt knew he had to say something to her, but it was very difficult to get away from his father to talk to her. As soon as they’d arrived home, Mr. Finch had set Newt the task of unpacking and cleaning his briefcase, which was heavy and difficult for Newt to handle. Once he’d finished with that, he’d been intercepted by his father once more and forced to listen to a lecture on how the next few days would be spent – not relaxing, like Mr. Finch would be, but keeping in correspondence with Mr. Royce and continuing to read through active case files.

Then dinner had been called and, of course, Newt wouldn’t be able to saying anything with his father sitting right next to him, involved in his scheduling though he may be. He was just thinking of faking illness so he could go straight to bed and try again in the morning, when the telephone rang.

“Newton, answer the phone,” said Mr. Finch distractedly.

“He’s still eating,” Eleanor pointed out.

“I’m busy.”

Eleanor, skewering a potato on her fork, replied lightly, “It’s for you, anyway.”

“How do you know that?” asked Newt, eyes widening.

“Isn’t it always?” Mr. Finch grumbled. He glared briefly at Newt’s half-full bowl, as though his son had somehow predicted the phone call and eaten slowly on purpose, then pushed himself away from the table with a grunt and left the room to retrieve the phone, which was in the office.

For a long minute, Newt stared at his mother, willing himself to begin. Eleanor, still gazing dreamily out at the sunset, didn’t notice his gaze. Finally, clearing his through, Newt said tentatively, “Mum?”

“Hmm?” Eleanor responded, still looking away.

“I had- that is to say, Dad and I had a, ah…a bit of an odd day.”

“ _Your_ father?” She smiled vaguely. “I can’t imagine.”

“Yeah. It was…” Newt cleared his throat again. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. It’s not like his mother was going to get mad or think he was crazy. “It had to do with Mr. Royce.”

“What happened to poor Mr. Royce? Surely he didn’t mistake another woman for being pregnant?”

Newt flushed, fighting a grin – it had been a most hilarious scene, the woman bursting into angry tears and shrieking at Mr. Royce that she was _curvy_ , calling him names, making passersby stop and gape at the scene. Mr. Royce, always one to speak without thinking, often got into these kinds of scrapes.

“No, he didn’t,” answered Newt. “It was, well, quite unusual. Er…he was chased by a dog and…and some garbage bins.”

“Garbage bins?” With apparent difficulty, Eleanor tore her eyes from the window and looked at Newt with a politely puzzled expression. “He was chased by garbage bins?”

“Well, not exactly. He went to yell at his neighbor and they – the bins, I mean – started shooting rubbish at him.”

Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. “You saw this?”

“No, but he came into the office covered in trash.”

“That’s not like him at all.”

“No,” agreed Newt, although he felt this was a bit of an understatement. Mr. Royce loved his fancy suits more than his own family, Newt was sure. “But that’s not the oddest of it.”

“More odd than Royce covered in rubbish?” grinned Eleanor.

“Yes. This, er, woman showed up. Out of nowhere. One second she wasn’t there, I looked down, then she was standing right in the middle of the office. And she did something…I don’t really know what she did. It was like…like magic.”

Eyebrows now disappearing into her hair, Eleanor leaned forward on her elbows and said quietly, “What kind of magic?”

Newt, having expected a more startled response than this, took a moment to relive the encounter before continuing, “She…she froze Dad and Mr. Royce, made the rubbish come off his suit, made a chair appear out of nowhere and…and she mentioned you.”

“Did she?” asked Eleanor, looking faintly surprised.

“Yeah, she said…she said to tell you hello and that, erm, that she had modified their memories and you’d know what to do.”

Eleanor’s face remained impassive, her expression back to a look of polite interest, but she nodded and said, “Okay. Did this woman say anything else?”

“She said…that one of them – Dad or Mr. Royce, I couldn’t tell – was, er, married to a witch but he didn’t know it.”

Newt met his mother’s eyes, eyes the exact same shape and color as his, and was about to ask his final, most pressing question when his father’s booming voice made them both jump. Mr. Finch was back, in the middle of a loud rant to no one in particular.

“-knows bleeding well how busy I am. Bothering at all hours, honestly, like I’m so concerned with their political agendas-”

Mr. Finch sat back down in his seat. The moment he had, Eleanor stood suddenly and said, “I’m going out.”

Newt and Mr. Finch both goggled up at her out.

“Out?” repeated Mr. Finch.

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Just out,” answered Eleanor in her usual fashion, waving a hand vaguely. Then, not looking back, she strolled from the room. Moments later, they heard the front door closed. Mr. Finch looked suspiciously at Newt. “What was that all about?”

Newt, still staring after his mom, still full to bursting with unanswered questions, answered honestly, “I have no idea.”

  
  
  


Newt didn’t see his mother for the rest of the evening and she wasn’t in her studio or her bedroom when he looked for her the next morning.

Mr. Finch, with his newspaper in one hand and a coffee in the other, bustled noisily around the flat, unable to decide where he wanted to start relaxing. He did nothing for longer than fifteen minutes – before ten, he had read the paper, watched the news, mused over what to wear, dressed and redressed several times, walked down to the lobby to stretch his legs, lectured Newt, yelled at the housekeeper, and rearranged the contents of his desk three or four times.

By the time Eleanor made her appearance, having been apparently taking a long bath in the upstairs bathroom, both Newt and his father’s nerves were at their limit.

“Where’ve you been?” snapped Mr. Finch when Eleanor wandered downstairs, smelling faintly of lavender. “How am I supposed to relax when I’ve got to do everything myself?”

Instead of answering his question, Eleanor said kindly, “How about a cup of tea?”

“It’s not time-”

“Tea would do you good. Please let me fix you one.”

“I don’t want a ruddy cup of tea!” raged Mr. Finch. “I want to have a relaxing morning with my wife, but she’s off doing who-knows-what up in-”

“Well, I’d like some tea,” Eleanor continued. Newt couldn’t tell whether she was purposefully ignoring her husband or if she just had simply tuned him out and didn’t hear him shouting. Leaning over the arm of his chair, careful not to drop the file he was reading, Newt watched his mother disappear into the kitchen.

Mr. Finch, seeing that he had been ignored, sank into a sullen silence. They listened to Eleanor bouncing around the kitchen for several minutes, then she returned with a tray laden with three mismatched tea cups and Newt’s favorite brandy snaps. She handed them each a cup and sat on the pouf that matched Newt’s chair.

“You haven’t brought sugar,” complained Mr. Finch.

“I already sugared it how you like,” replied Eleanor.

Still pouting slightly, Mr. Finch took a sip from his cup, glowering at Eleanor over the brim. As he lowered it again, a change came over him. His lips, pursed tightly, went slack and his eyelids drooped. “Dear,” he murmured, his voice slightly slurred, “I’m suddenly quite…quite…” Then his head fell back against the chair and began to snore, still clutching his teacup in his lap.

Alarmed, Newt started to stand but was stopped by his mother’s hand on his shoulder. With a serene smile, she said, “He’s fine. Sleeping peacefully.”

“Did…did _you_ do this?” Newt asked incredulously.

“Yes.” There was an unusual energy in Eleanor’s voice, an excitement that didn’t often penetrate her breezy demeanor. She was practically beaming as she told Newt, “I haven’t done one in a while, so I may have added a little too much. He’ll probably sleep all day.” Looking fondly at Mr. Finch, she added, “It’ll do him good. He works so hard.”

Newt, not willing to be distracted, asked eagerly, “Added too much what, exactly?”

“Sleeping Draught, which I spent the morning brewing in the bathroom.”

“You…you brewed…but how?”

Eleanor grinned, her cheeks flushed as she said something she’d obviously been dying to say, “Because, Newt, I’m a witch. And, since Bella didn’t wipe your memory yesterday, I’m guessing that means you are, too.”


End file.
